The beauties of the earth we sing
In glowing numbers,
And to the ‘reading public’ bring
Post-prandial slumbers;
We save from Mammon’s gross dominion
These sordid times . . .
And all this, in the world’s opinion,
Is ‘stringing rhymes.’
It is as if a man should say,
In accents mild,
‘Have you been stringing beads to-day,
My gentle child?’
(Yet even children fond of singing
Will pay off scores,
And I to-day at least am stringing
Not beads but bores.)
And now the sands were left behind,
The Club-house past.
I wondered, Can I hope to find
Escape at last,
Or must I take him home to tea,
And bear his chatter
Until the last train to Dundee
Shall solve the matter?
But while I shuddered at the thought
And planned resistance,
My conquering Alexander caught
Sight in the distance
Of two young ladies, one of whom
Is his ambition;
And so, with somewhat heightened bloom,
He asked permission
To say good-bye to me and follow.
I freely gave it,
And wished him all success. Apollo
Sic me servavit.